


against the dying of the light

by tarinumenesse



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Developing Friendships, Fear, Friendship, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Language Barrier, Nightmares, Panic Attacks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-14
Updated: 2021-03-14
Packaged: 2021-03-22 03:34:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,778
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30032403
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tarinumenesse/pseuds/tarinumenesse
Summary: Dimitri is scared to fall asleep in the aftermath of the Tragedy of Duscur.
Relationships: Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd & Dedue Molinaro
Comments: 3
Kudos: 15





	against the dying of the light

The sun is setting. Dimitri presses himself into the corner of his bed furthest from the window and watches its rays retreat. He hugs a pillow against himself like a shield as the darkness comes. Closer, closer, its tendrils creep towards him.

When the shadows reach his bare toes, he jumps out from behind his shield and scrambles across the mattress on his knees. The bed’s curtains are secured around its posts. He fumbles with the knot holding the left one in place, biting back tears, heart beating fast.

_ Dimitri…Dimitri… _

The knot goes slack. Dimitri yanks on the curtain and pulls it closed, before lunging to the other side of the bed. His fingers are numb and clumsy, and it’s taking too long, far too long, to loosen the tie. They will find him. He gasps. His head feels light. He falls as he draws the second curtain along its rails, but manages to catch himself with one hand. He takes a breath and reaches for the last curtain at the foot of the bed.

Finally, Dimitri is surrounded, protected at all sides by heavy velvet. He sits in the very centre of the headboard, back against solid wall, pillow again clutched to his chest. He stays perfectly still. Listens. Waits.

_ You’re being a fool _ , he tells himself.  _A foolish child. You’re supposed to be better than this. You’re descended from Blaiddyd. From Loog, King of Lions. Pull yourself together._

Pull yourself together. That was what his tutors started saying two years ago, on the day he was given a proper lance. Leave behind the games of childhood. Become a man. You must make Your Father the King proud. Be a son worthy of Lambert, Star of the North, ruler of Faerghus and beyond.

On the same day, Felix was removed to Fraldarius, no longer permitted to live in Fhirdiad as the prince’s companion. Great things were expected of them both: Dimitri as prince, Felix as the Crest-bearing heir of his house. Dimitri remembers the way his friend’s lip quivered, the way his eyes shone with suppressed tears. Because men of Faerghus do not weep at silly things like separation from childhood friends. They weep for the pride of their land, for the glorious dead. They weep at the strength of their king.

Recognising Felix’s distress, their fathers laughed and pushed the boys towards each other. Embrace each other as sworn brothers. That is what you are, what you will be, in days to come. You’ll be each other’s greatest friend, a stoic support in times of trouble.

But Felix isn’t here.

_ It is your task now… _

Dimitri can hear the steady rhythm of the clock in his antechamber. It marks each passing minute, each tedious second. The tone is even, tuned to perfection by the clockmaker. _Tick. Tick. Tick._ A sharp, melodic chime sounds the hour. Two gone. Seven to go.

All is dark. Not a scrap of light makes its way past the bed’s curtains into his sanctuary. He is safe here. Nothing can harm him. Nothing can hurt him. He is safe. Safe.

He closes his eyes.

Before him, a wall of fire. Screeches and screams assault his ears. His hands tremble around the shaft of his spear as a figure in black advances towards him. He looks up into their red eyes and the weapon falls from his hands altogether. He stumbles backwards as his assailant raises a knife and falls. His hands land on embers, scolding, burning. He screams.

There is a blur in front of him, silver and green and black, and a choked wheeze.

Dimitri gasps as he falls. When he comes to, he is lying on his side at the head of his bed, pillow suffocated in his arms. He sits up quickly, pressing his back against the headboard. Pinches his leg, hard, for good measure. It isn’t safe to sleep.

_ Tick, tick, tick. _ Three gone, six to go.

The window rattles. In the distance, a floorboard squeaks. A shiver tickles Dimitri’s spine. He remembers the storm in Gautier. The cavernous halls of the keep at the Sreng border amplified the wind into a squeal that surged into the room where Dimitri and Felix huddled together under a blanket. Sylvain and Glenn shared the next room over, and all night they thumped on the wall, howled like wolves on the hunt, screeched like the risen dead. Their laughter regularly broke the illusion, but all the same Dimitri and Felix didn’t sleep that night. At breakfast Sylvain and Glenn burst into uncontrolled laughter upon seeing the bags under their eyes.

Because ghosts weren’t real.

_ Tick, tick, tick. _

The wind whistles down the hallway. Dimitri pinches his leg again, hopes his manservant doesn’t notice the bruises in the morning, and wishes his friends were in the room next door now, banging on the wall and making noises. Breaking the sounds of night with their nonsense and antics.

_ Dimitri. My son. _

The door creaks. Dimitri bites his lip.

_ My boy. _

Footsteps fall heavy on the floor, drawing closer to the bed. He hides his face against his knees.

_ My prince. _

The curtain rustles. He presses his hands over his ears.

“Dimitri?”

Dimitri looks up. Dedue’s face is lit by the glow of the lamp he carries. He glances around the enclosed space of the bed, and Dimitri is suddenly embarrassed. The pillows are scattered and the blankets twisted, revealing the distress he has endured since sundown. And he must have yelled, loudly, to alert Dedue, who slept in the servant’s closet on the other side of his quarters.

“Dimitri,” Dedue says again.

The way he says Dimitri’s name is light, less stilted and more lyrical than how it’s pronounced in Fód. He’s adapted it to suit the flow of his language, which he speaks to Dimitri now, despite Rufus’s insistence that he speak only the common tongue of Fódlan. Dimitri closes his eyes, trying to decipher the sounds of Duscur, the meanings they convey.

He cannot. It’s a sting in his chest.

“Dimitri.”

He opens his eyes. Dedue frowns.

“I’m sorry,” Dimitri stutters, curling over the pillow he still holds.

Dedue heaves a sigh, then crouches down to place the lamp on the floor. He climbs onto the bed, large enough to provide sanctuary to them both. Dimitri shrinks away from him, but Dedue shakes his head and wraps his fingers over the corner of the pillow. He gently pries it from Dimitri’s grasp and lays it at the head of the bed.

“Sleep,” he says, pointing to it.

“I can’t,” Dimitri whispers.

Dedue says something in Duscur, and this time Dimitri understands the basic meaning—if not the poetry surrounding it—by the furrow of his brow, the tilt of his head.

_ Why not? _

“You’ll think I’m crazy,” he answers.

Dedue presses his lips together, then shifts to sit back against the headboard. He reaches up and takes his earring between his finger and thumb.

“Baba,” he says.

This word Dimitri knows. It sends a sickening stab of pain and longing through his soul, an ache so deep his gut twists. He swallows around the lump in his throat, blinks away tears. Men of Faerghus do not weep.

“My father comes here,” he says. “He asks me to avenge him. To seek out the people who attacked the retinue. I see him and his face is painted with blood, and his eyes are wild.”

Dimitri knows he is speaking too fast for Dedue to understand, but the words spill forth, inevitable.

“I don’t know where to start or what to do,” he confesses. “I’ve never felt so useless. I’m the prince of Faerghus, heir to the throne. I’m not supposed to feel helpless. I’m not supposed to feel so lost and confused. So…so scared.”

While Dimitri speaks, Dedue remains still and silent. But at the final word, his eyes spark with recognition.

“Scared?” he repeats.

It is like this every time they speak, each of them picking out individual, familiar words from the other’s language. Small crumbs by which they can communicate. Although Dedue seems to recognise more Fód than Dimitri does Duscur. He is a faster learner, and cleverer.

Dedue frowns for a long moment after Dimitri nods. Then he shuffles closer and rests a hand on Dimitri’s shoulder.

“I will help,” he says.

The words are too much. Tears prickle at the corner of Dimitri’s eyes and he furiously wipes them away. He catches Dedue looking at him with a confused expression.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbles. “This isn’t very dignified of me.”

Dedue’s lips twist. He shakes his head and starts to scold Dimitri. The only part he catches is “sorry,” a single Fód word thrown amongst the Duscur. But he feels honoured that Dedue cares enough to speak to him this way and so doesn’t interrupt.

When Dedue is finished, he shuffles backwards off the bed, picks up the lamp, and points once more at the pillow.

“Sleep,” he orders.

The prospect of being left alone sends a chill through Dimitri’s body. He scrambles across the bed, reaching the edge just in time to catch the hem of Dedue’s shirt as he moves away.

“Saheb,” he says.

Dimitri stumbles over the pronunciation. It has been some months since he learned the word, and in the time between his entire world has fallen apart. But it must be close enough to what the village boy at the edge of the Duscur region called him, because Dedue stops and regards him with raised eyebrows.

_ Tick. Tick. Tick. _ Three down, six to go. If Dedue leaves, the ghosts will come. Dimitri can’t risk it.

But it’s more than that. He can’t be truthful with his uncle or Rodrigue, or confess to them what happens after dark. But he feels safe with Dedue. Dedue’s alone in this world, like him. Both their families were stolen by sword and flame.

Ashamed, Dimitri realises he doesn’t know how to ask Dedue to stay in Duscur.

“Please.” He reverts to his native tongue. “Don’t go. I don’t…I don’t want to be alone.”

Dedue shifts his weight. “Friend,” he says, echoing Dimitri’s Duscur with his Fód.

“Yes,” Dimitri whispers. “Friends.”

Dedue remains where he is a moment longer, then sits back down on the bed beside Dimitri.

“Saheb,” he says, shaping the vowels carefully.

Dimitri smiles and lets go of Dedue’s shirt.

“Saheb,” he attempts.

Dedue chuckles and shakes his head. “Better.”

“But wrong,” Dimitri guesses.

Dedue lifts his legs onto the bed and crosses them so he can face Dimitri. The lesson continues, and the gasps of the wind fade into the background.

**Author's Note:**

> Dimitri and Dedue walk around the monastery speaking Duscur to each other. You can't change my mind.
> 
> The title is of course from the poem "Do not go gentle into that good night" by Dylan Thomas.
> 
> Many thanks to halcyon_autumn for reading over this before posting. You can find her brilliant work [here](https://archiveofourown.org/users/halcyon_autumn/pseuds/halcyon_autumn).
> 
> I'm on [twitter.](https://twitter.com/RuneTari)


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